Fingers like twisted branches reach for a pen to write about the lines that fold around her gnarled knuckles dry with age from holding onto stories too long her forearms rest heavy on the smooth white pages of bark as she writes her story with ink made of dirt; lines of language.
The bridge was here when I bought the place arching slightly ever so slightly enough to rise above the fall rains. The path to the back of my property gets steeper every year eroded over time and rainfall. The cows won’t quit complaining tonight, every night the crickets never let up hissrattleshatterscreachbuzz my lantern bobs … Continue reading The lantern
Home is where you always are no matter what the weather or who the bartender is. Home is always inside you; you don’t need an apartment but you’ll be more comfortable that way. Look for your skeleton keys (you dropped them on the driveway) and pull away the curtain so your shadow can see the … Continue reading Home-ing